


break me down, build me up

by hailholylight



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (like lowkey), Alternate Universe - College/University, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Kidnapping, Light Sadism, M/M, Piss, Spit Kink, Stabbing, Stockholm Syndrome, Sub Will Graham, Watersports, gagging, put theres a good amount of plot, really an excuse to write porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailholylight/pseuds/hailholylight
Summary: Hannibal, a stranger and a known killer, turns out to be the only person that can see Will for what he is.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 133





	break me down, build me up

The crime scene itself quickly became a sensation around campus. It functioned more like a spectacle, like a public work of art, than an actual crime scene. Students, fancying themselves detectives, gathered around the yellow tape almost immediately, shooting out theories in vain attempts to impress the experienced FBI agents, all of them lingering about like vultures, staring at the victims and picking away at the details. It was compelling, though, the whole scene. Will couldn't fault anyone for being drawn towards it. Will himself didn't want to look at it directly, but he couldn't help doing so as he passed by. There were no actual leads, no evidence, no suspects. The security cameras didn't reveal anything, and no DNA was left behind— but the body revealed so much when you knew what you were looking for. 

The feet were cut off, and an outline, made of an impossible range of flower petals, surrounded the body, crafted into the shape of a coffin, the corpse reaching out towards no one. Right where their fingers touched the edge of the flowers, a burst of petals extended out roughly six feet. It showed a level of theatricality and care that the psychology students had only read about in novels. 

The killer was mocking the police, so some students suggested, bragging about being able to drag a decorated and mutilated corpse onto school grounds, arrange it right in front of the psychology building and not be seen at all. Will, for the most part, tried to not care that they were wrong. He found all the talk about the case to be from people who cared more about having their footnote of fame than actually being of any use. There was no being of use where they were. No one had seen the killer, no one had any solid evidence, and no one could profile him well enough. And even if _Will_ made an effort of his own, fed his morbid curiosity and crippling empathy, it wouldn't ensure a saved life. No one had to listen to him, even if he was right. Will found it easier to be invisible, to go about his normal campus life, get his degree, and help how he could, when he could. 

That was his line of thinking, anyway, until he saw a man outside his window.

It was 3 am and Will couldn't sleep. He had sweat through 2 different plain white t-shirts and was now in his dorm room, shirtless, staring outside his window. He didn't have a roommate thanks to his only remaining bit of luck, so he often spent nights with all the lights turned on, music playing softly in the background, mugs with only chamomile dregs left in them littering his window sill. Usually, Will didn't see much from his through the glass. He saw an owl one time, some lightning bugs another. He heard the cicadas crisp and clear, the wind blow through the trees. It was usually peaceful. This night was not. 

The man was covered from his neck to his feet in some sort of clear plastic onesie, his hair uncovered but slicked back, his hands in gloves. It was in the middle of the week whenever everyone was busy sleeping or studying, in a corner of the campus, a more measured risk than the first one had been. Will stared at him for a long moment, then grabbed his coat before he could think twice about it and half-jogged his way down the dimly lit stairwell. He stopped before he reached the front door, taking a breath, then moving forward slowly. He could feel his heartbeat as he stepped outside, acutely aware of the terror that being alive brings, and stepped behind a tree. He could spot the man a few yards away, carrying a body in his arms like a bride, then setting it down and adjusting their limbs. Will couldn't save the life. He couldn't call the police without being heard and subsequently killed. Will was ready to go back up to his dorm, write down a description and hand it over to whoever was in charge of the case, but his feet stayed glued to the dim grass. The man turned and looked straight at him. 

The man paused in his tracks, stood straight up, and cocked his head just slightly. Will wanted to run, but his legs couldn't find enough balance. The terror of being alive, as it happened, was knowing that at any point, you could die and there was nothing you could do about it other than come up with theories about what would happen afterwards. As the killer approached Will, the memory that flashed before him was of his baptism. His family had been converts to the grand Catholic churches of Baltimore, so instead of being baptized as a child, as everyone at Will's new school had been, he got dressed in an itchy white smock and stood in a large pool of water on the Easter Vigil. In front of the eyes of his family, and the eyes of God, Will was supposed to be washed clean, supposed to be saved. He was promised a life of worship and love, of following in historic footsteps. But this was how it was all going to end. He wondered what the headline would be. He wondered if his father would give him a Catholic funeral even though he hadn't been practicing since Mom died.

"What's your name?" the stranger asked. 

Will blinked and the man was in front of him, crowding out all images of painted ceilings and shiny caskets. 

"I'm, uh— I could be asking that of you."

"I suggest you don't." He smiled, a certain knowledge behind his eyes, but a certain deadness crawled alongside. He seemed an agent of mortality, larger than life itself, uncaring to who fell victim to his inevitability. 

"Will—" his voice caught in his through " Will Graham. My name's Will Graham."

"Well, Mr. Graham," he said, his accent hard to place but feeling so familiar, "I'm really sorry we met like this. In another world, maybe we wouldn't have gotten off on such a bad foot."

He was about to ask what he meant when the stranger reached to hold Will by the small of his back, pushing him forward into the blade of his knife. Will produced a strangled sound of surprise and looked up at the man in front of him. Blood, hot and thick, gushed out of him like wine and water, spilled on the ground between them. Will crumbled, first to his knees and then to his side. He watched as the stranger stepped back into darkness.

— 

Will was standing in a field. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that it wasn't a real field, and his hands themselves weren't real, but disconnected, floating in front of him as if they were balloons, loosely attached to his arms by ribbon. The killer was standing in front of him, the most solid thing in the environment. Will felt drawn forward. As he walked close, the grass underneath his steps burned away, as though Will were his own fire. He was scared to reach, to touch the man, scared that he was going to burn right through him. The stranger smiled and reached out before Will was even able to, cupped his face and pulled him close. Will could feel the knife, could feel the blood dripping out of his body, but he didn't feel scared anymore. He felt dizzy, almost high. He couldn't imagine ever feeling this good again. He clung to the stranger, rested his head on his shoulder, now covered in his own blood. He was held in return, a hand on the small of his back, the other wrapped around his shoulders. He felt more solid than he ever had been. 

— 

When Will woke up, he was more groggy than anything, like he was dragging himself out of mud. Multiple people were trying to drag him out on their own, going through the facts of the matter in dry, pitiful tones while he focused so hard on relaxing and letting a machine breathe for him that he nearly burst a blood vessel. It all scraped at Will, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't understand anything they were saying. He fell back asleep out of spite. There were more times he could remember being awake, but they were all small moments, swirling together until they became one mass. 

In his next bout of consciousness, he vaguely recognized that he no longer had a tube in his throat, that he no longer had IVs in his arm, but he was still in a hospital gown. And he felt wrong. Something in the air was fundamentally wrong. A scent, the texture on his fingertips, the humidity— all the small details of the world weren't how they should've been. He realized it all slowly, one after another.

He opened his eyes and there were no nurses, no machines, only the feeling of silk sheets under him, and the feeling of his hands bound above him. His world was light and color, breath and blood, contained within only the purest abstractions available to a primitive mind. He was lagging behind, his soul pulled forward by his body. He wasn't able to count how many times he fell in and out of consciousness, the number of figures he saw passing in front of him, real or imagined. Will himself felt surreal. 

"Up again?" A voice asked, that familiar but strange accent. It burned and caressed Will in the same moment. 

Will opened his mouth, dry and barren, and cleared his throat. "Who— " his voice gave out, trailed into a rasp. 

The man sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap. His tie reflected the light in its metallic accents, and was tucked neatly into a dark grey-blue vest, a powder blue shirt escaping around his shoulders, falling perfectly tailored to his wrists. His hands caught Will's attention for no particular reason. They were strong, carved in marble, the kind of hands that would arrange bodies into a painting, hands that belonged to someone who saw life as performance art. 

"Would you like some water, Will?"

He nodded desperately and could think of nothing he'd want more. The man smiled warmly, like a hospice nurse, then reached past Will, grabbing the glass that was on the end table. He lifted Will's head with all the delicateness of holding a newborn. He pressed the metal straw to Will's lips and it felt strangely intimate, like the man in front of him held everything that made Will up. He closed his eyes at the rush of water. It was an elixir, the sweetest thing that Will had ever tasted. Hannibal pulled it away while the cup was still half full.

"Don't want you getting sick," he said. 

Will nodded, settling back against the pillows. 

"I don't think I've introduced myself," the man said, suddenly ruled by manners as if he wasn't a murderer but the owner of a quaint B&B.

"I think— " Will cleared his throat, "I think you pretty much have." Will's eyes glided down to his stomach.

He chuckled, light and airy, "Not my most civil moment, I recognize."

Will couldn't bring himself to smile along.

He inhaled, his smile falling, "My name is Hannibal. Dr. Lecter if you want to distance yourself."

"Doctor? And that's your real name?"

"Formerly medical, now starting a psychiatry career. And yes. I think you'll come to realize I wouldn't lie to you."

"Yeah? What makes me so special?"

Hannibal turned his head, tilted it up, and stared off for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Most people," he started, "Would have stayed in their room, I think, stayed safe. You threw yourself into danger."

"Oh, please do psychoanalyze me. That's fucking wonderful." He yanked on his bindings, shaking the headboard along with him. Hannibal didn't flinch.

"I think there's something dark inside you, Will. I don't think you want to acknowledge it or give it anything to feed on, so instead, you let it feed on you. It tears you apart."

"You sure do know a lot about me, Dr. Lecter," Will grumbled.

"I did my research."

Will froze, "...How long have I been unconscious?"

"In the hospital, it was maybe a week. Nurses said you kept waking up every thirty-six hours or so, but I could never catch you awake. You've only been here..." he looked down at his watch, "about twelve hours."

"A week." Will looked up towards the ceiling. A whole week of his life that he could've been living. 

"That's distressing."

Will glared at him with all the venom he had, "Yes. Just a bit. Can you get these damn ropes off me?" He pulled his hands as far away from the headboard as he could, reaching with his fingertips. 

"Is it that you missed out on your previous life, or that you missed out on the aftermath of that night?"

"Excuse me?"

"You threw yourself at me. Not only did you not end up dying, as I assume part of you wanted, you didn't get to be alive in the aftermath. It was delayed."

"I did not," Will stated, "throw myself at you."

"How long did you stand there, in your window? How long did it take for you to realize who I was? How long did you watch me before you decided to come down to me?"

Will stayed silent, feeling suddenly vulnerable in a way he hadn't before. Hannibal could see more of Will than most and they had barely had a conversation. Added to his position, which had now started to hurt his shoulders, Will felt entirely exposed. Hannibal, his eyelids dipped low in an affection glance over Will, seemed to notice his discomfort and revel in it, which didn't get under Will's skin as much as he knew it should've. Hannibal _understood_ him, on some fundamental level, saw the pit in his chest that he always carried around, and was so confident in his understanding. It wasn't comfortable at all, but it didn't make him resent Hannibal as he would've expected. It made his breathing pick up, his heart beat just a touch faster. He felt the same thrill he did outside the dormitory. 

Hannibal leaned over him, brushed Will's hair out of his face, looking him in the eyes with that same gaze. A small smile caught his lips. "Tell me, Will. How long did you watch me, not calling the police, not calling for help, not even screaming as I did whatever I liked to you? How much would you have tolerated?"

"You left me to die. You wanted me dead."

His fingers just barely brushed against Will's cheek, and Will closed his eyes at the sensation, letting it ride through him. "That wasn't me leaving you."

It was far too intimate a motion. "I... I barely know your name."

"And yet you still feel connected to me."

Will stared straight at him, trying to see beyond the image he projected out at him. "I'd say you understand a part of me. I couldn't say I understood any of you in return."

"Would you like to know more of me, then? See all my intricacies the way I can see yours?"

Will thought about it for a moment. There was still some aspect of him clinging to the idea of telling Hannibal to go fuck himself and that, actually, he was a very normal person and didn't want to see anything Hannibal wanted to show him. All of that instead came out as "I wouldn't mind."

Hannibal smiled. His hands moved up to Will's wrists, undoing the rope easily. He wrapped his arms around Will, pulling him up and letting him lean on his shoulder for a moment. His fingers quickly slid into Will's hair, and Will had the knee jerk reaction of pulling away. Hannibal loosened his grip, let Will move back, put his hands on his shoulders instead while Will adjusted himself to sit against the headboard. 

"I need you to trust me."

Will laughed, "You're not doing a good job of it." 

Hannibal pursed his lips in response. "Would you like me to draw you a bath?"

— 

Hannibal sat behind him, the hot water covering both of them but leaving nothing hidden. His hands were tentatively in Will's hair, as though he would pull away at any moment. Will himself wasn't quite sure how long he would let this go on. 

"What did you see when you looked at the crime scene?"

"Hm?" Will asked, his eyes closed and his head threatening to rest against Hannibal's shoulder, only being held back by the small pebble of anxiety in Will's chest.

"You said you don't feel like you understand me. Tell me what you do understand. What did you see at that crime scene? What made you want to come after me?"

"You assume those two things are connected."

"Are they not?"

Will sighed, "I saw a— a love letter. For lack of better words."

"Hm. Who, or what, was the object?"

Will paused for a moment. "I think... I don't think there was an object, or at least not one you envisioned seeing the declaration."

"No?"

"No. It had no address."

Hannibal's hands drifted to Will's shoulders, then his torso. "So what was the reason for writing it?"

"Getting it out of your system," Will said, another sigh, "You were trying to leave an obsession behind." 

"You can see all that and yet say you don't understand me."

"I understand an _aspect_ of you. Assuming that's all true."

"Is man not defined by love?"

"Are you? Did you see me as a way to satisfy your yearning?"

Hannibal didn't miss a beat, "I see you as you refuse to see yourself." 

A hand of his was dipping ever lower, resting on Will's thigh, then drawing a fingertip up to Will's cock— not holding, not lingering, barely even acknowledging what he was doing. Will stayed completely still, gasped quietly at the touch, but felt as though he was in a game between himself and Hannibal, the first one to say something being the one to lose. 

"How long have you known about me, Hannibal?"

Hannibal ran his thumb across the head, sending a sharp rush through Will. He tilted his head down and pressed a kiss to Will's neck. It completely paralyzed him, made him pliable under Hannibal's hands. Will could feel a victorious smile forming against his skin. "Tell me more about what you saw."

"I— I saw— " he groaned— "Hannibal, _please_." 

His eyes were shut, his breath quick and shallow, his hands gripping the sides of the tub. 

Hannibal slipped his other hand under Will's jaw, lifted his head up, holding his face steady. The control he had over nearly every part of Will's body— it made him light up, made him lose any ounce of shame and resentment he could've possibly had. All he knew was Hannibal's hands. 

"Tell me this, then, and I'll let you come. How does it feel having that scar there because of me?"

"Let me," he panted, "You'll let me?"

"Yes," he grinned, "I'll let you, just like I'm letting you breathe." He wrapped his fingers around Will's throat, no pressure at all, just a reminder. 

Will _whined_. "It feels... I don't know, I don't know."

"Try."

"I— Hannibal, I can't— I can't possibly— " It felt _ethereal_. It felt like being marked for life. It felt like Will imagined the surface of the most far away planet feeling. It felt impossible, and dizzying, and inexplicable. 

"You say my name so easily. It fits well on your tongue." The fingers on his throat receded for a moment. When they came back, Hannibal was pressing two of them to Will's lips, slick with his own spit. Will opened his mouth as though he had been trained to, accepted Hannibal's fingers just the same. 

"Considering letting you come anyway. Say my name again."

Will made a strangled noise, arching his back, " _Hannibal_." His voice was hardly a whisper. 

"Wonderful. A wonderful thing to feel so connected, isn't it, Will? To be able to give yourself, all of yourself so completely, and trust that I will do what's best for you." 

He slid his fingers out, then returned them, pushing them farther than they had been, now nearly at the back of Will's throat. He focused on breathing, on allowing Hannibal to take everything he wanted. He opened his mouth wide, and Hannibal took full advantage, pushing his fingers deeper down Will's throat.

Will gagged, jerked forward. Hannibal, lacking his original hesitation, pulled him back against his chest, shoved his fingers back in Will's mouth, his hand still slow and steady between his legs, completely unfazed. Will gagged a second time, but stayed mostly steady under Hannibal's hands, spit welling up around his fingers, tears pricking his eyes. He closed them as tight as he could. Hannibal kissed his cheekbone where one stray tear had fallen. 

"I'll show you my world, Will. And I promise it will be just as beautiful as this."

Will cracked like a dam, and everything came flooding over. From his stomach to his shoulders, all of Will's restraint crumbled, his legs twitched. He came hard, shameless, loud into Hannibal's hand.

For a long moment, all he could do was breathe. His entire brain had shut down for one blissful moment. When he came to, he was completely relaxed against Hannibal, who was pushing his hair back against his skull over and over again, kissing a spot behind his ear, sucking a mark into his skin. Will drew in a shaky breath, reached up and held Hannibal's cheek. Hannibal leaned into it. 

"That beautiful?" he asked, his voice fragile.

"Promise.”

—

Will had a stark white towel over his shoulders, his hair dripping wet. His clothes smelling like fresh detergent, something that made him nostalgic for a time he wasn't sure he ever had. And despite the fact that he had been, with no exaggeration, kidnapped from a hospital, Will didn’t feel as though he was in any direct danger. He felt like he was finally spreading his wings. He watched Hannibal as he worked in the kitchen, watched him move with expert focus, an eye on everything, every variable tucked away and neatly accounted for. It was a small pleasure, watching the way his arms moved and shifted his striped button-down. 

He laid a plate in front of Will, "Salmon en papillote. One of the only ways I enjoy cooking fish."

"You're not into fish?"

Hannibal half-shrugged, "Unless it's freshly caught, I feel like there's only so much you can achieve."

"You asked my name," Will said. He didn't intend to start anything, but he could hear the tone as it came out of his mouth. Bitter. A peek into his anger that had been idly knocking around in his head, tucked behind the nostalgia and warm scents, only part of which really had anything to do with Hannibal.

Hannibal looked up through his eyelashes.

"On campus," he continued, "You asked for my name. Said you wished we had met under different circumstances. You couldn't have known about me very long."

Hannibal smiled, amused, then went back to his cooking. 

Will took a sharp inhale, leaning back, sitting straight, "All I'm saying is... I don't think you were stalking me for an extended period of time."

"I wasn't stalking you at all," Hannibal replied, not looking up.

"Oh? What were you doing then? Keeping an eye on me? A stranger?"

"I simply... Saw something in you. Like I was looking in a mirror."

"Right. The pit in my soul,” he muttered.

"Yes. A darkness. Which you admit to being there."

"Which I have under control!" Will shouted, officially breaking the peace.

He glared at Will, standing straight with his nose in the air. "You don't seem to have a large amount of control, Will." 

He nearly grabbed a knife to throw at him. He huffed and stomped out of the kitchen. It was impossible how a man who had, not even half an hour ago, made Will feel so willing to be laid bare and vulnerable, could now drive him up the wall. He went up the stairs, to the bedroom, looking around for a landline. It would be so easy. He would call the police, they would find him, he would go back to his normal life without Hannibal, without being seen, with no one understanding him— He stood stock still with his fists clenched. It was the first time the state of Will's soul had ever been spoken out loud. The first time Will had let anyone believe it was true. Hannibal had the same itch as him, and jesus, if Will didn't want to scratch the hell out of it. 

He inhaled, then exhaled, counting. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ . _In, out._ His entire life up to this point had been all about holding himself back. And Hannibal was willing to show him the exact world he had been keeping himself out of. Hannibal was willing to scratch that itch and every other one that popped up. He could hear footsteps outside the door. The thought of locking himself in the room crossed his mind. He stayed still.

Hannibal let himself in, still in his apron, his hair microscopically more disheveled than it had been a few moments before. "Are you alright?"

"Don't ask me that," Will snapped, running a hand through his own hair. 

Hannibal sat down on the edge of the bed, folded his hands while Will paced in front of him, covering his mouth, then scratching the back of his head. His steps slowed until he was standing still in front of Hannibal, breathing calmly. "Let me."

Hannibal cocked his head. 

"What you did to me."

"I think it's a bit wasteful to draw another bath, Will, but—"

"Right here. Right now."

Hannibal grinned, an arrogant glint in his eye, "Alright. Go ahead then."

Will stepped towards him, his legs only shaking slightly. He got to his knees and Hannibal immediately slid his fingers into Will's hair. He undid Hannibal's belt quickly, then his button and zipper, trying to let his mind go blank, let his desire take over. He licked his palm, then wrapped his fingers gently around Hannibal's cock, stroking in the same rhythm Hannibal had in the bath. 

Will leaned down, swirled his tongue around the head, and before he could get used to the particular warmth in his mouth, Hannibal pushed his head down, forcing him to take all he was physically able to. Will gagged, but Hannibal didn't let up, keeping his head right where it was. He gagged a second time, and a third, spit gathering around his mouth, coming out of his nose. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could hardly feel his hands— Hannibal let go. Will pulled himself up, fell backward onto his hands, now breathing deep and fast, gasping for air. Tears were falling from his eyes again. 

Hannibal extended a hand. Will blinked, his breathing slowing, and after a tense moment, took it. 

Hannibal was a bit more lenient this time around, letting Will set the pace as he sighed and gasped above him. Even in his most base state, Hannibal still had an air of dignity surrounding him, a gift Will could not say he shared, being covered in his own spit.

Will swallowed when the time came, when Hannibal had a death grip on Will’s hair and was laying back on his elbows. Will attempted to pull back, only to be held in place by Hannibal's hand. "Keep your mouth open." 

Will obliged. Hannibal tilted his head back and, holding his cock steady, let a stream of piss flow into Will's mouth. He stayed perfectly still, right where Hannibal wanted him. 

"Don't swallow. Not yet." He pulled himself back into his trousers, zipped himself up, then stood over Will. He smiled down at him, a mixture of affection and delightful revelry in his control. He slid two fingers into Will's mouth, and added to the liquid, it was everything Will could do to not swallow. Hannibal reached the back of his throat and kept going, his other hand tightening his grip in Will's hair. 

"Be good. Keep breathing."

Will closed his eyes as Hannibal's fingers went down his throat, immediately causing him to gag, swallowing halfway, coughing the rest. While bent over and wheezing, Hannibal took a step back from him completely, clicking his tongue. 

"A simple command."

Will sniffled, a combination of nearly every bodily fluid spread across his face, hands, and neck. His shirt, plain white, was ruined. His throat hurt, his sinuses hurt. And yet, the sharpest sting was Hannibal's voice. 

Hannibal pulled Will's hair again, forcing him to look up into his eyes. Distracting, Hannibal’s eyes were, made him forget his own name. 

"I asked something very simple of you, Will."

Will nodded as best he could. 

"I can't have you thinking you can disobey me, can I?"

Will shook his head, feeling a sob in his throat. He felt utterly powerless, but the thought almost comforted him. The pain, the disappointment, the sting, all of it was in Hannibal's hands. 

Hannibal smiled faintly and Will's heart skipped a beat. "You know how you can make it up to me?"

Will shook his head.

Hannibal kissed his forehead. "That desire you're always pushing down, the need to make those displays, to make your own paintings. I want you to indulge in it for me. Just once. Only once."

Will would've done anything upon Hannibal's request. He would've sacrificed everything— and yet, all Hannibal was asking was for him to dip his toes into an already existing desire. Will nodded, desperate and eager. _Anything, anything._

"Wonderful. You can be my student. How does that sound?"

Looking up at Hannibal, into his eyes, Will could think of nothing better.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so for my last fic i think i wrote the end notes at 2am. it's almost 3am right now, i just wrote the last line to this. i have no idea how much I'm going to change tmrw when i look over it. anyway, thanks to rachy for cheering me on and enabling my ideas lol, i love them a lot. thanks to the rest of the Hannibal twt gang for making me laugh. and uhhh thanks Bryan fuller for allowing me an outlet for kinks i never let myself have. here's to you, my man. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed, feel free to comment and kudos and all that, i read everything and i love validation. sleepy oil signing off. [peace sign emoji]


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